


The Lost Sons

by eddi



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Child Neglect, Everything Hurts, Gay, Gen, Heavy Angst, It's Hard and Nobody Understands, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, No Forgotten Realms AU, Sadstuck, Teen Angst, There Will Be No Dad-On-Son Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddi/pseuds/eddi
Summary: It's hard being a kid and growing up. It's hard and nobody understands.Or: A high school AU where the minivan made it to its original destination without any hijinks, the dads never learned anything, and everyone's gay.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

People have more in common with plants than they'd think. The enlarged frontal lobe has done a lot to inflate the ego and self-importance. An inherited superiority complex that served the race well as a whole, perhaps. Evolution in fauna is a slow masterpiece, but a well cultivated and kept garden can be eternal. The maintenance checklist, however, is roughly the same. Has the being been fed and watered? What effects does the environment play? Must there be pruning or alteration to encourage growth? Have you checked for underlying rot? Is the being going to survive a re-potting in the middle of winter?

The neighborhood was sunnier when the boys were scrimmaging at all hours in the park. The air kept clear, the weeds stayed relatively shallow, a chorus of laughs after a crude joke to bring a smile to your face. Sometimes a flurry of extra hands hard at work troweling and plucking for the promise of a returned ball. Summers were packed with drills and jam sessions, movie nights and cookouts, the occasional secrets and handshakes. The last coming of age summer cliches petered out with the dissolution of the city soccer league. Bright jerseys and bicycles retired, in their place plain polos and car keys.

Afternoons now were too quiet. Low clouds kept the air stale, warm, thick. Adaptability and hardiness aren't always the strength of plants or people. Some days it's all you can do to even water them. The weeds had begun a siege that would require more than the only two hands that could catch them, but you would keep working, day in and out. From each sunrise and set, you found a reason to stay out in the park, keeping the grounds as tidy as possible. Even if there was no one to stop today, didn't mean there wouldn't be a heart broken tomorrow to see a parking lot in its place. 

*

"Wilson. Wake up."

A blink or two and eyes on Terry Stampler. It's been a long few minutes of irreverence at the table, enough to dissociate, but Grant Wilson just, "What?"

"You coming or not?"

"Uh. Where?"

The passing of a couple bills from one onlooking Oak twin to the other, and a snickering from Lark, "I'm telling you boys, I am unstoppable in the realm of statistics and probability. I'm going to make a living on the stock market and leave all of you in the literal dust of my ass."

"Brother, there is no more powerful gift than that of the pickup game and mentalist tactics, trust me." 

Light ribbing continues, but Grant opens his mouth to speak again, cut off almost instantly by Terry with a, "Hangout. Nick's. Tonight."

"Oh." Thoughts have less of a flicker and more of a treacly ooze from neurotransmitter to receptor. "Who's going?"

A snicker from one Oak to the other, "The gall of this mother fucker." "Does he really think we'd get over the threshold without bursting into either flames or tears" "Might I posit... Flaming tears?" "Mm. I wouldn't."

"Just me, apparently." The lightest elbow bump from Terry to Grant, maybe to keep him tethered into the conversation better. "Unless you show up for once."

Obligations ticker through, letter by letter, until, "Got practice tonight."

"It's Friday, you don't have practice on Fridays."

"Then I have chores."

"You can just say you don't want to go, Wilson."

"I didn't say I don't want to go."

The usual back and forth continues beat for beat, the same as it has almost on the daily for weeks. Sparrow glancing between both friends, Lark leaned back and watching fight highlights on his phone but still listening, Terry trying to make strong eye contact, and Grant vacantly crossing his arms.

"I literally just caught you in a lie about practice. Your house daddy cleans everything up for you, you don't have any chores."

"Don't bring him into this, what the fuck." There's no real aggression in the words, no animosity behind his teeth, just a tired contenance. "I'm busy. Drop it."

There's a twitch in Stampler's face that Grant can't unsee, even if he darts his gaze back to the table. Uneaten lunch. Gut too tight to breathe well, let alone eat. 

Terry usually backs down. Or Grant can run the clock down until lunch is over and they can all go their separate ways. But today, there's still ten minutes. And Terry's steepling his fingers. 

"What's your deal."

"There's no deal?"

"You're full of shit."

"I'm not full of shit, Terry."

"It's literally just hanging out with Nick. Our friend. Why are you being uptight?"

"I'm not being uptight."

"Are you going to keep repeating everything I say back to me, or."

"Maybe." Grant's face tightens. Maybe trying not to cry. Definitely not going to do it in front of the others, though. Absolutely waiting for Terry to back the fuck off and leave it alone. Swallowing down any and all feelings about the whole situation.

But he says, "Gonna cry about it?"

*

The pickup from the dean's office isn't as embarrassing as he'd thought it would be when he was younger. An awkward exchange between his dad and Terry's, handshakes and small talk lightly tinged in disappointment. Signed slips for a three day suspension. And Grant in the front seat of the van for a few quiet minutes until his dad tries what one might assume is his best. 

"What was that about, buddy?"

A silence, a shrug, and a stare out the window.

"Yeah, no, that's. Not an answer man, I'm sorry."

"Okay."

He does that thing that dads do when they take a big breath and let it out almost dramatically slow. "Let's talk it out. This isn't like you, Grant."

There's this deep sense of deja vu that Grant's sat through this (lecture? pep talk? coaching?) before. A one-sided conversation where his dad makes a half assed effort, but he'd never actually get it. Mainly because even Grant doesn't get it. But he listens with the occasional hum. And immediately upon getting to his mom's, Grant's up in his room and locking the door. Headphones on and volume up to drown the too-polite conversation between his parents. 

*

It's a pain in the ass, but Terry manages to give his stepdad the rundown enough to more than sate curiosity. The white knuckled grip on the steering wheel and the radio turning up NPR say enough. They're hardly home for five minutes before Terry's holding his hand out for keys and soon enough on his way to Nick's.

Nick's puppy dog delight when he sees Terry pulling up almost outweighs the state of the house. A strategic few steps around the blasted front yard and he's bumping fists with Nick. 

"Oh you look like dogshit," he says to Terry, more impressed than concerned. 

"Still better than you." A wide sweep of the front yard and porch. "How was the party?"

He's practically bouncing in place, giving Terry the beat by beat play of last week's rager with his dad. Stories of drunk roadies and fucked up fights set the background noise for Terry to start picking up the remnants bottle by bottle. While he talks, Nick automatically starts mirroring the cleanup, only pausing when he needs both hands to gesticulate.

"So what's the other guy look like?"

Terry rolls his eyes, hauling another trash bag up toward the porch. "Looks like Wilson."

Jaw falling slack, all jovial hyperactivity halted. Like throwing a stick into a moving wheel spoke. "No fuckin way. Grant?"

"Yeah fuckin way. Dude’s a dick." And another full trash bag from the yard up to the porch. Must be close to a dozen by now. "Gets on varsity and thinks everybody has to bow the fuck down or something." Not the most charitable assessment, and Terry knows that.

"...What happened?" Nick’s stopped all productivity, the worry taking precedent. Conversation no longer sustains the momentum of post-bash cleanup. "Is he okay? Shit, ah, I mean. Sorry. Are you okay? Are you guys cool?"

"He’s just been a dick, I don’t know what else you want me to say."

"Okay but being a dick and kicking your ass isn’t the same thing. I mean technically, I guess. They hold hands, but they’re not the same. One doesn’t equal the other, but--"

"I invited him over tonight and he kept making excuses. It’s really not that big a deal, dude."

"Okay but you guys fought?"

"We didn’t fight."

"You look like you were in a fight."

"It wasn’t a fight, he just snapped on me like a psycho." 

Nick’s shoulders drop, but he doesn’t keep pushing it. Not the first time there’s been a knowing silence about Grant, the rush of blood in ears as you walk on eggshells delicately around the point. It’s just a fact. Just like Nick knows Terry didn’t even try to stop the ass-kicking. It’s not their first tussle, but definitely the first that didn’t start on the pitch. 

A few hours of cleanup later, lawn mowed and carpet cleaned, both boys settle in the basement. A few rips off the bong. Terry splayed across the couch, Nick setting up a steady beat at the drumkit. For the longest stretch of time, there's no words, only vibes. Terry prodding the bruises on his face now and then, a toe tapping to the kick drum. Eventually, the beat throbbing is only in his skin, Nick now just looking at him.

"He's taking me on the road when he gets back, he said."

A pause, Terry opening his eyes, brain not quite up to speed with his brain. "Your dad?"

"Yeah."

"Wait. Isn't he coming back this weekend? Or did I make that up."

"Yeah, no. He's gonna be here tonight, he said."

"'kay but when did he say it."

"Couple days ago. But like. He definitely meant it."

"Uh huh."

"He did."

"I didn't say anything, man, shit."

Nick twirls a drumstick between his fingers, contemplation as he looks at Terry. "You wanna come?"

There's a couple seconds of delay, Terry sitting up on the couch and rubbing his face. Just a little woozy. "What?"

"Do you wanna come with us? On the road?"

It's an invitation that is entirely fabricated within this moment, and there's no way Nick could possibly think it was a feasible option. But Terry doesn't tell him no. Conflict isn't usually his thing. He's still got his face covered when he says, "So did you drop out for real?"

The swing of the spotlight from Terry to Nick has the latter stammering, but he tries to play it as a laugh. "There's literally nothing I need to know that I can't like. Figure out. I don't need trig or social studies to get where the hell I wanna get." Almost certainly parroting his father, but Terry won't point it out. 

Instead, he says, "I gotta get the car back."

"Aw, c'mon, just have your mom and Ron come get it."

"Mom needs it back tonight." A white lie, but he doesn' care, really, if Nick believes him. "They have that dumbass bowling thing. And I'm sure he narc'd, so. I'm probably grounded anyway."

"God, the image of Ron trying to ground you is just wild."

"He didn't even try to stop me from leaving. Let me take his keys and shit, no question."

"Fucking absolute idiot." He gets out from behind the drum kit, arm out to pull Terry to his feet. "I'm sure Glenn would let you come, though. Really. We can get sick tats and stuff. Can have my bunk so the weirdos don't get in."

"I'll think about it, man." He won't think about it at all. And it's clear to both of them that he's just appeasing Nick. Not for Nick's benefit, but so there's no bullshit to deal with. 

*

The quiet of the house raises Nick's hackles. The slight creak to the wood floors as the house settles. The tree lightly scratching at a window. The air pressure changing each time the AC clicks on and off. He's not scared, obviously, but there's nothing to really settle him or keep him distracted when Terry isn't there.

As the night stretches onward, still no sign of Nick's dad, no phone call or heads-up text. He gives it time. Maybe he's busy. Driving. Joking with the crew. Filling up the van. Laying pipe. Millions upon millions of possibilities. 

When the phone does ring, it jolts him. Hot rush of adrenaline down the back of his neck. He almost forgets to answer passively, but at the last second, "Sup, man."

There's an awful moment of delay before the line drops with a beep. And Nick looks down at the screen. Scam Detected, Robocaller.

Fuck.

The benefit, though, is now he's fully aware of how long he's been dicking around on his PC and smoking out the basement. Almost midnight. Time to call. 

The phone rings a lot longer than he's comfortable. And he's rehearsing what he's gonna say to the voicemail when the line connects, "What is up, my man?" The intonation makes it clear, his dad's hammered.

"Nothing, dude. Just checking up."

"It's all good. So so good. Listen. I'm pretty sure there was something in the Chex Mix, if you feel me." All vowels elongated, the mirth of a stupor making Nick feel an ache in his ribs.

He laughs, though. Perfectly practiced. "Lucky dog, pops."

"Don't I know it. You staying afloat down there, bud? Need a little dinero? Just made bank on the last gig, I'm losing my fuckin mind. You wouldn't believe--"

Nick lets his dad ramble about how wild the scene is in Portland. The madness of the crowds. A dubious anecdote involving stealing a duck. And though it's becoming more and more clear to Nick that his old man forgot to give him a more accurate update on his ETA, he's just listening intently while the week's tour stories lull him to sleep.

*

The lunch table is unsettling, now that it's just the two Oak boys. Last minute homework already done, food garbage, and no real tension without their pals to keep things entertaining.

"This blows," says Sparrow to Lark.

"I concur," says Lark to Sparrow. "The only downside of violence is how it tears nakama apart." An ironic yet dramatic look into the middle distance, fist clenched.

To encourage his brother, "Surely there are other downsides."

"Not a single other downside can be found."

"Fallacy."

"Now, let's watch the dicking language."

Sparrow gives a hearty applause, "Excellent use of double entendre, brother."

And Lark responds with a bow, "Arigato."

"Have you had correspondence with our comrades since Abel attempted to fell Caine?"

"Negative, but this is mainly for lack of initiation on my behalf. You?"

"The same, I must admit. I've been working on a piece in alone time hours." Sparrow flips around his tablet, displaying an incredibly over-detailed and hyper-anatomical bipedal horse. "What say you?"

"Absurd in every way. I've been wounded for life." Though Lark does continue to look critically at the image. "You've drawn the penis upside down, brother."

"I-- Shit." And Sparrow flips his tablet back to himself, stylus making quick motions across the screen. "Are we going to attempt to make amends between the dynamic duo?"

Lark seems to be considering as he scrolls on his phone. "I don't see why we should intervene in the personal affairs of our acquaintances."

"They're not merely acquaintances," Sparrow counters, "they're our friends."

A scoff, and a text from Lark to his brother, a secondary conversation under the verbal. "Semantics."

“I should say hardly." Sparrow reviewing the text message, responding in kind on the separate thread. "The connotation of acquaintance implies emotional distance." 

Upon receipt of the next text, he's typing almost immediately. "I say what I say, brother mine."

The art of balancing a verbal rapport while a separate unspoken conversation continues is certainly an exercise of the superpowers of attention hyperactivity. It used to be a fun game among the boys when they played video games together. See who could get one of the twins to break their exterior with the underlying chat. 

The text conversation at lunch as follows:

> **S: If we're being charitable, the Wilson divorce has been a strain on that side of the table for a few weeks.**
> 
> **L: consider the stampler angle.**
> 
> **S: Threw the fight entirely.**
> 
> **L: to be fair, wilson could pummel any of us**
> 
> **S: I think that's the point, if you catch my drift.**
> 
> **L: ?**
> 
> **S: Unrequited romance leads a man to madness, wouldn't you say?**
> 
> **L: who is unrequited with whom?**
> 
> **S: The sexual tension between the two is absolutely electrifying.**
> 
> **L: why don't you write a friendfiction about it?**
> 
> **S: ;P**
> 
> **L: gross.**
> 
> **S: There is testing required for the hypothesis, however.**
> 
> **L: i don't enjoy where this is headed.**
> 
> **S: Fifty dollars and control of the television. You take Wilson, I'll take Stampler.**
> 
> **L: $50 and you volunteer to do father's dumb community service project. i'll take stampler.**
> 
> **S: And now you see this was all according to keikaku. I only claimed Stampler so you would desire him! And now the very single Daddy Wilson will be mine for the taking!**
> 
> **S: ;3**
> 
> **L: i.**
> 
> **L: hate it here.**


	2. Chapter 2

The elegance of a moonlit park does not exist in the modern age, especially not the idyllic sort of Victorian romance. Everything is kept watered mechanically, no need for a watering can at daytime. The glow of the moon is outshined by the buggy street lights, but most of the neighborhood is still. Soft spray of sprinklers, buzz of power lines, woosh of cars on the overpass. 

And if you strain, you could hear the sighs and lips of particularly angst-riddled youths in the backseat of a station wagon. Is it a goodbye? A long-awaited hello? Experience would tell you it's just hormones and drama, but the romantic in you yearns for that time back. The world is much smaller when you're sixteen. 

*

"So how are we doing today?" 

Grant flexes his fingers, knuckles still split from where he caught Terry's tooth. Healing sort of uneven, but still bandaged. The sting and the bite of first impact is still fresh, even if it's been a couple of days. He shrugs at the question.

The therapist was part of the terms avoiding divorce, initially. Requested by his mother, paid for by his father, and endured by Grant (and the therapist). Most of the first sessions, he kept his arms crossed and said nothing. Three years later, the divorce finalized now, he's still taking Prozac and still in therapy. Lately, it's been a shift back into silence. He knows neither of them enjoy it, but it is what it is. 

"Your father mentioned concerns when he checked in this morning. Do you want to talk about what happened with Terry?"

The name alone spikes Grant's blood pressure, but he keeps his lips together. Unmoving save for very slow and steady breaths. Maybe if he slows his breathing enough, he can melt into the chair. Be there to witness the next client of the day. Move on from his mundane teenage "issues" and listen to someone with real problems. Maybe it would do some good to hear genuine suffering.

To his credit, the therapist has always made an effort to get Grant to open up by allowing as much time as he can. There was one session where he asked for Grant's name, said nothing else for the remaining hour while Grant tried to spontaneously evaporate. It's a mostly thankless client-professional relationship. Sometimes the guy gives him homework, worksheets about himself, ways to cope with overflowing emotions, the works. He chucks them in the trash on his way out to the lobby, usually. Coach Darnell gave him a ride back from the clinic once, tried to break the unspoken rule of "don't talk to the kid about therapy". Attempted to relate to Grant about their "similar life experiences" on their way to the field. All it did was distract Grant at practice, reading entirely too much into the wide-legged stance Coach always had on the sidelines.

"We don't have to talk about it," his therapist says, "but your family expressed concerns that you might be a danger to yourself."

He takes a breath, eyes up at the ceiling instead of at the look he’s receiving. "It's fine. Just lost my temper."

Never feels good to be disappointing an adult in your life. Especially one your unemployed dad is paying out of pocket for. There's a beat or two where it seems like he's waiting for Grant to continue.

"...I'm not going to hurt myself. And I'm not going to hurt anybody else." Some magic words he learned early on in therapy. 

His therapist nods, but he's still just watching Grant without speaking. Trying to let Grant have the first move.

"...We just argued. I got mad. I hit him. That's all."

"What was the argument about?"

"I told him I didn't wanna hang out."

"Always good to assert your boundaries."

Grant tightens his hand into a fist, relaxes it again. Just to feel the sting of the healing scab tug away. "He wouldn't leave me alone. And I should've walked away. But I didn't. So. Here we are."

A half-assed volley of words for the next half hour. Reviewing coping skills. Practicing healthier ways to deal with anger that don't involve beating the shit out of your friends. Most of it blurs out into nothing, Grant soon enough back in the van with his dad. For the first time in a while, his dad's not trying to talk, just got the radio on. But when they're pulled up to his mom's, his dad doesn't get out right away. 

"Do you wanna stay with me this weekend? Can cook out on the grill. Do some drills. Think the weather'll be good for fishing."

Grant just gets out of the van. Up to the house. And to his room.

*

It should be made clear at the get-go, Terry loves his sister. She's past the stage of crying at all hours now. Genuinely curious about the world. Sits still next to Terry when he plays video games. She's relatively unobtrusive, really. 

It's Ron's complete lack of wherewithal that gets Terry worked up. "Did anyone remember to feed Evelyn?" has become a permanent part of Terry's mom's dialogue. Usually accompanied by, "Not a worry, I'm on it" from his stepdad. Every single day. Almost every meal. The only one it seems to bother is Terry. That isn't to say he neglects her or lets her go hungry. He makes her breakfast every morning. Helps with her pullups. Tends to meltdowns when he sees her struggling. It's more like having a somewhat sentient pet than another human around, but Terry didn't grow up with siblings. He sure as hell didn't grow up with Ron.

A knock on the door frame of his bedroom, distracting Terry from his game. Controller fumble. Character dead. Fuck. 

"Hey, uh. Your mom and I are having a. Talk? Yeah, uh. Family meeting on the sofa. Don't be late." The snap of fingers, and a nervous chuckle. "Gotta talk about your, uh. Performance in the company, young man. Let's see if, uh. The. Um. Promotion is available for you."

Ugh.

When it's clear his stepdad has left the doorway, Terry puts the controller and headset down. Deep breath to try and just let the annoyance roll off his back. Counting slowly to each in and out. One. Two. Three. Four. Makes his way out to the living room. Evelyn's stacking her colored blocks into a tower and crashing them. A cycle she could probably entertain herself with for hours. The sound of the plastic clicking against itself gets him gritting his teeth, but he goes for his dad's armchair. Ron's next to Terry's mom on the couch; he's looking empty, and she's tired from work.

She starts before he’s seated with, "Hey sweetheart. We didn't get the chance to talk about what happened yesterday."

Terry does his best not to glower at Ron for narcing, knowing it won’t help. Fingers tap on his thigh, internal metronome ticking its way outward. One two three four. "Yeah, I went to help Nick with some school stuff."

His mom doesn't have any reason not to believe him, and he's glad for that. She does give this little pitying smile when he mentions Nick, though. "He doing okay?"

Four three two one. "Yeah, he's alright." Don’t need to bring that up right now. No need for anybody to stress anymore than they already are.

"That's good." She looks from Terry to Ron. "You wanna start, sweetie?"

There was a point in time that any breath Ron Stampler took, Terry would start praying for him to combust. A constant thirst for Ron to get punched in the face, trampled by a mob, or have a heart attack at his desk. And though he's gotten older and he understands why his mom wanted to remarry, the addition of Evelyn only proves Ron's inability to sustain his own life. Let alone a baby. There's a flicker of that old anger when Terry has to listen to Ron's stammering, but he’s stuffing it back away and trying to breathe. Judging Ron and being a dick to him isn’t the move. The guy’s not evil, Terry’s just over reacting.

(one two three four three two one two three four three two one two three four three two one)

"...I know it hasn't been easy since we brought Evelyn into our family, Terry. Life is much different being a father of a baby child, than being the stepped-up dad of a young man." Ron shuffles his notes, muttering something about them being out of order. Terry's mom helping him find the next page to continue. "Working from home has allowed me the opportunity to grow closer with everyone. This is great. I like this." Accompanying thumbs up. "But it can be hard on your mom and me to work, take care of your sister, cook, clean, do yard work, pick you up from getting in a fight at school--"

"You literally have only had to do that once, Ron," Terry says under his breath, fingers digging harder into his jeans on each one and four. Hardly perceivable. 

It gets Ron stalled, but he clears his throat and continues. "It can be hard on your mom and me to do those things all the time. So the two of us have a proposal for you, regarding your status as a man of the house in training. Turn it over to Samantha." Ron adjusts the legal pad and kinda just holds it in his lap, knee jiggling. The couch creaks slightly with the bounce.

(onetwothreefourthreetwoonetwothreefourthreetwoone)

"We just think it would be nice if you helped out around the house more," his mom says softly. "I know you've got school. We're not asking for a lot, just. You know. Helping tidy up. Getting dinner started. Just. Trying to be more of a participant than a bystander?"

Terry's looking down at his sister now. Watching the block tower fall again. Slowly getting stacked back up.

"...Your mom and me aren't upset, TJ, we just--"

(onetwothreefourthreetwoone). "My name's Terry." (twothreefourthreetwoonetwo). "Don't call me that." (threefourthreetwoonetwothree). "Please."

"Don't raise your voice," his mom says, but it's just as delicate and almost patronizing as she is with Ron. 

Terry's hands clasp. Deep breath in and out, but his voice comes out cracked, "I don't want him calling me that. He knows I don't want him calling me that. We--" (fourthreetwoonetwothreefour) "I swear we go through this all the time, he just does shit to spite me."

For a few moments the only sounds are Evelyn's blocks and the shaking of the couch from Ron's bouncing leg. Samantha reaches over to put a hand on Terry's laced fingers. "Terry, he doesn't do it on purpose."

"Yes he does." He doesn't even convince himself of that, it just riles him a little more. "He just acts stupid so you'll do everything for him all the time so he doesn't have to do anything. And you go along with it because you're scared to be alone, so you settled for the first loser you met and just keep trying to make it work. He's always doing stuff like fucking up, and he's--"

Her hands squeeze Terry's. "Hey."

The softness of her voice has Terry almost immediately crumpling. She's disappointed for sure. Of course. Because he's falling back into being upset with Ron. It always makes her upset. It's not Ron's fault, it's his fault. Of course. Obviously. Duh. He's the one ruining things for his mom. He's the one getting in trouble at school. He's not doing enough around the house, so he's letting her down. He's making Ron feel bad about himself. Making his mom feel like a failure. He's spiraling, and he knows he's spiraling, so he's just a dumbass 'cause he can't break the cycle. It isn't that big a deal that Ron fucks up, at least he makes his wife happy. All Terry can do is keep reminding her of her pain. And twisting the knife. 

and. 

and. 

and.

"Tayee?"

A blue block from a little hand to the arm of the chair next to him. Terry stares at the block, but doesn't pick it up. Evelyn paps his leg. 

"Tayee, it's oak-y."

*

Hot vomit welling from his nose and mouth, Nick barely even makes it to the bathroom. Nothing worse than bile in your sinuses. Curled up as small as he can, holding himself while the last of the late night bender evacuates. It'll stop soon. Everything will stop blending together, the smells will drop off, and he can stand up again like nothing ever happened. Signature Close move. Even if his knees are shaking, he's gotta get himself back up. Can't pass out praying to the porcelain gods. Absolutely not cash money. He wipes his mouth and nose with some single ply.

A knock on the stall door. "Ten minutes, dude, gotta get back in the van." Zipper, pause, piss. "You wanna drive?"

It takes Nick just a couple seconds to recalibrate. Flush. "Yeah, man, I'll take a shot at it." 

"Sick. Old man's still blotto. Don't need a warrant in Nevada, too." He's lingering in the bathroom. Washing his hands a little too long.

Nick finally gets himself up off the floor, gives a last loogie into the toilet. And he's standing at the mirrors with his dad. He glances up just out of habit, kinda startled at how eerily similar he's looking to his dad when they’re both hungover. No DNA test needed to confirm that paternity.

"You have fun last night, man?" Glenn's hand on the back of Nick's neck, steering him from the rest stop bathroom to the awaiting van. "Handling hella tail, looked like."

Not being able to remember the previous night has Nick's gut tightening again. But he daps an awaiting fist. "Gonna be a man before the tour's over."

The laugh from his dad gets Nick smiling despite his lousy state. "Hell fucking yes. Groupies love jailbait. Get you a couple cougars, make it memorable."

"Fuck yeah, dude." He's not really so sure about all of that, but oh well. Just his lack of know-how trying to keep him down, for sure. 

The rest of the group are still sleeping off most of the previous night's festivities. A girl with a long blonde wig passed out with her shirt off in the second row. Nick doesn't remember seeing her at any point this week. She doesn't look much older than him, either. 

"Keys for the dawg." Glenn slaps them in Nick's hand, tucks himself in the passenger seat, bare feet up on the dash. "Put 'er in gear, and let's fuckin ride, baby."

Driving a cargo van towing a trailer is a little beyond Nick's comfort zone. But it can't be that hard. All cars are basically the same. Clutch. Brake. Gas. Shifter. Easy. He dicks around with the mirrors a little before pulling his way out of the parking lot.

"Just floor it when you merge, they'll move out the way." 

Nick glances, seeing his dad on his phone. Looking at Facebook, not really even paying attention to what's going on. A falsely confident, "Aight, man. Where'm I going?"

"We're going onto, uh..." 

There's a couple beats. Thankfully the highway's clear enough at 5am that getting on isn't too tricky. The van does rattle a little over rumble strips, Nick carefully correcting. It's not the first time he's driven, but he still doesn't have his license. But that's not an issue, probably. Definitely safer than his dad or any of the other driving wasted. His dad wouldn't put him in harm's way anyway. 

Right? Right. For sure. No doubt.

He's keeping on, trying to keep his own nausea down. One eye on the road, the other glancing to his dad, now snoring. Where the hell is he supposed to drive to? Spent the overnight in Reno, heading south to Vegas. Just follow the signs? That's probably how it works. Yeah, that's not so bad. 

A touch at the back of his neck has him flinching, wheel jostled, and van barely avoids a guard rail. Nick's body tightens up, hands trembling on the wheel, and glaring at the guy sitting behind him in the rearview. Something wrong about the way the roadie’s smirking back at him. Everyone’s awake now, though. Grumbles and cusses, Nick’s ears are hot when his dad rouses, too. 

"You good?" he asks, tilting his shades to look at Nick. 

"Tight. Was a tire in the road. No big." Even if he’s white knuckling the steering wheel and chest pounding. 

"Aw, man. Lame."

*

The gig is easy to set up. Lugging equipment keeps Nick’s head distracted, and his dad lets him dick around in the dressing room during the actual set. Plenty of time on his console, getting in killstreaks. No need to feel lonely, plenty of other roadies and some girls around, too. Catered food isn’t too bad. 

After the show, he’s in a hotel room with his old man. Head aching like a sonuvabitch. Lighting up and taking a quiet few moments, just the two of them. Something unreadable on his dad’s face. Vibe is pretty off. 

"No party tonight?" Nick asks.

"Nah, think we’re heading home in the morning. Don’t wanna sleep too late."

It hasn’t even been that long. A few days at most. A slow exhale, though not doing any fun smoke tricks. "Am I not meeting your expectations?" He tries to say it like a joke, a little smirk.

Glenn’s not smiling, though. Throwing Nick off kilter. 

"...everything good?"

"Somebody from your school left a pretty narc-y message on my mobile." 

Fuck. "Yeah? Sounds like bullshit."

"Yeah, probably is." But his dad’s kinda crushing the roach between his fingers. Taking a sucker from his bag, offering a second one to Nick.

He’s got the lollipop cheeked, looking at the floor. "So."

"So what."

"What’d the school say."

"Oh. Yeah." It looks like his dad’s straining to recall precise details. Constipated for thought. "Said you haven’t been there or something. Cutting class? Some shit like that. More than just Friday. Said like. Been a month?"

A scoff, effort at recovery. But he’s got a shake in his hands. Trying to keep it out of his voice. "School’s not even a big deal, man. Just a bunch of institutionalized horse shit to keep ya down. It’s not like I need a degree to be a rockstar, amirite?" Lopsided grin, little elbow at his dad.

Glenn’s crunching down on the lollipop, which makes Nick wince. "Just one of those things, dude. Gotta keep that shit on lock as like. A backup plan. You know your pops has a hundred n one backups on backups. But they’re kinda limited given the whole. Lack of a diploma thing."

Another sound of disbelief. "I’m just gonna get my GED, it’s the same thing."

"Not really. Like. They don’t even let you in the military with a GED, I’m pretty sure."

"Okay? And I don’t wanna be in the military, that shit blows. I wanna be a rockstar. Make a bunch of cash. And retire with my own playboy mansion. Might even invite you if you're still kickin." A gentle punch to the shoulder, still trying to keep the mood light despite the harsh vibe his dad’s giving off.

For some reason, Glenn's not playing ball. Nick watches him flick the stick from his lollipop into the trash, shoulders tight when he turns his back on the kid to change into something to sleep in. Silence creeping back in. 

Just when he's starting to feel the roots of his teeth, the ache of the edible settling in, "...so are you staying when we get back, or..?" Maybe there's a reason to be hopeful. A pride welling in his chest when he asks. What if his dad actually stayed, that'd be dope. Hanging out after school jamming. Gaming. Going to Disneyland wouldn’t be that bad. Shit, what if Nick could convince his dad to try out Universal? That'd be tight. He's sitting up better to make sure he didn't miss his dad's response,

But Glenn's in bed now. Eyemask on, earplugs in. Blanket burrito. Didn't even hear Nick, probably. 

Figures. 

*

Emotions are not easy. Even more difficult when they’re tied up in social expectations and pressures. More still when you’re in the hormonal flux of adolescence. 

But his mouth is soft and yields nicely. 

There’s no power struggle, which might be a bit boring. But it’s practice. Ten thousand hours makes a master? Only nine thousand nine hundred and ninety eight to go. Roughly five years if making out is a full time job, forty hours a week. Good enough to evolve from kissing in a back seat to taking over the heart of whoever he may so choose. 

The conversation picks back up after what probably is too long. A little break to catch their breath. Clock on the dashboard now further past a reasonable curfew. Windows foggy despite being rolled down a little.

"...You’re not useless."

"Thanks...?"

"That probably did not come off as intended. It was meant to be matter of fact, rather than wry or sarcastic."

"Yeah. Just. Wasn’t expecting that I guess?"

"You have a lowered sense of worth that is not justified. That is all I meant to say."

"Oh."

Another soft touch of lips, faint cheek stroke. Dilated eyes hungry for attention meet briefly with a pair a touch too vulnerable for their own comfort. And the touching fades away when the eye contact breaks. Throat clearing and, "It is much later than expected."

"Shit. My mom and Ron are gonna have a cow."

"I am sure it will be fine, despite your anxieties leading you to believe otherwise."

Though there’s a shared little smile, the drive home is still awkward and very quiet. A hand squeeze as one boy leaves. A wave as the other cruises through the neighborhood to his own family home. Parks. Up through the garage to the interior door. Pausing there, still reeling from conflicting feelings and principles. He reaches for the handle to find it opening for him, now face to face with his double. 

A tension oozes from the house in the form of loud ambient music at almost one in the morning. Sparrow’s grimace says most of, "I believe you are in deep shit with Father for borrowing the Prius for your first base escapades."

Lark’s defeated sigh agrees.


End file.
